


start your engines!

by browniedotgov



Category: Cars (Pixar Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Domestic Fluff, Drabbles, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, How Do I Tag, LiFe iS a HiGhWaY, Minor Character Death, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, doc is insecure, everyone sounds vaguely southern and i'm not sorry, i don't know how to write straight people, it's an oc tho, no beta we die like cras, nobody can sleep properly i guess, or gay cars, or gay people, please this was for a fluff-off promptfest w/ my sweet sweet nom, sarge has ptsd he's literally a ww2 jeep was he supposed to not?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28826685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/browniedotgov/pseuds/browniedotgov
Summary: this is quite literally just a series of random cars drabbles that i initially wrote a joke. please forgive me. or don't.
Relationships: Doc Hudson/Lightning McQueen, Fillmore/Sarge (Cars), Flo/Ramone (Cars)
Kudos: 6





	1. good morning, loverboy

**Author's Note:**

> prompt — kiss. that's it that's the fluff prompt.

the sun rises slowly, coating the perfectly puffy clouds in delectable shades of purples, pinks, and oranges before its bright morning rays tickle the tops of the cozy cone. the light filters through the gauzy curtains, dancing around the ceiling before bouncing off lightning’s nose.

doc rises fast, the sunlight kissing his lover’s hood having bounced directly into his tired eyes. he was been up far later than the older model usually preferred, but he’s never minded compromising his routine for the young racer. moving slowly so as not to wake the warm car next to him, doc delicately lifts and stretches his front axle. he’s just getting a good stretch when his bed lets out a too-loud, embarrassing creak. cursing the mechanic who put him back together to high heavens, doc tries to return the tire to the double-garage floor without waking lightning.

lightning rises faster, eyes opening in a flash. everything about the youthful car has always been speedy, and his morning routine is no exception. rapidly blinking the sleep away, he looks fondly at the older car next to him, and offers a bleary grin. 

defeated, doc lets his wheel hit the tile with a soft thud and tries to conceal the blush creeping across his dashing paint job. lightning catches it anyways, quick as he is, and the red car nuzzles into doc, just below his side mirror. “s’nothin to be ashamed about, huds,” he murmurs, voice still hoarse from sleep. before doc can offer back a biting remark in return, mcqueen begins a morning stretch routine of his own. his axles let loose an unsightly series of creaks and groans, but mcqueen looks as unbothered as ever. “All good racers are a bit stiff in the mornings, huds, just shows you’ve worked hard.”

eyes blown wide, doc takes a moment to absorb every detail of his kind, good, oh-so-thoughtful lover’s face, from the recently polished headlights to the minuscule, just-barely-visible scratch in front of his right wiper. finally, he sighs, releasing the tension that had settled in his cab, and he allows himself to stretch, ignoring the small voice that asks him to stop embarrassing himself, stop showing weakness, stop baring the deepest parts of himself to a car he’s barely known for an entire circuit. but doc hudson knows better than his insecurities, and he’s sure as oil that the car grinning at him, the car who took him to the honeymoon suite of the cozy cone for valencar’s day isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

well, maybe doc’s mistaken. as soon as his last tire touches the garage floor, lightning leaves the side he was nuzzling and zips around the room before tapping the “open door” button. he speeds around the cone, and for a moment, doc is sure he’s dreamt up this whole affair, but then the racer is back in view and planting a firm kiss on the older car’s lips. he instinctively moves to return the kiss, but lightning is already pulling away, yelling “race ya hudsy!” as he drives away. but it’s slower than doc knows the youthful car can reverse, and he’s almost caught up to the racer when mcqueen stops. doc follows, and lightning leans towards the blue car, nipping his bumper before scooting back before hudson can ask for more. 

in a sultry, teasing voice, mcqueen offers a final glimpse of hope before turning and zooming away. 

“there’s more where that came from if you can beat me.”  
doc offers nothing in response but a wide smirk and a revving engine. in a flash, he’s off, chasing lightning’s dust without a care in the world.


	2. insomniacs unite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt — hurt/comfort
> 
> cw: minor oc death mention, ptsd symptoms, mentions of war.

sarge wakes suddenly, disrupting the gentle hum of the crickets and fireflies with an anguished cry of “willy!” in an instant, he’s on the edges of his wheels, poised and ready to strike whatever invisible threats come his way. after another few seconds, however, it becomes clear to sarge that the threat only exists in his nightmares. 

he settles down onto the flats of his tires, trying to calm his breathing. “it’s only a nightmare, sarge. the war’s been over for decades, sarge. you’ve got nothing to fear in this tiny nothing town, sarge. they can’t hurt you anymore, sarge. it’s only a nightmare,” repeats in his head like a mantra, until he’s fully convinced his body that he’s not two seconds away from battle. but when all sarge’s worst nightmares are just horrifying memories, convincing himself that the war isn’t at his garage door is an impossible challenge. 

still, sarge is used to this torturous routine and eventually his heart rate slows to an acceptable pace. only then does he notice the thin layer of condensation that coats his exterior and the wiper fluid that must’ve leaked in his sleep. grumbling, he flicks on his wipers in an attempt to hide his embarrassing tears and tries to settle back into his parking bed. his alarm clock, a bland digital thing with neon green numbering, reads a traitorous 2:51.

the next twenty minutes drag by in an offensively slow manner. sarge has been turning around in his parking spot constantly, and the visions from his nightmare continue to plague his mind, chilling sarge down through his frame. the images replay through sarge’s head like an inescapable, horrific film, all explosions and heat and screaming and death. he’s never been able to escape the sight of a battlefield at the end of the day, car parts and ash flung to the farthest corners of the land, irreconcilable with the tough jeeps and tanks sarge had chatted with only hours before.

he’s plagued by the vision of willy, a bright-eyed young jeep who’d lost his life only a month into his first tour. sarge had watched the naive soldier take a wrong turn, laughing over his shoulder about a raunchy joke one moment and blown to bits the next. there was no goodbye, no final wish, nothing except a happy boy who was taken before his time was up. of all the deaths sarge witnessed in the war, willy’s hurts him more than anything. for years after he got back home, sarge tried to pen willy’s folks a letter, hoping that something he could offer might give the poor folks some closure, but all that endeavor lead to was dozens of notes crumbled in a trash can and unused stamps.

sarge gives up on sleep for the foreseeable future, instead tapping his hangar-garage door’s “open” button and slowly pulling out of his home. he wheels around the far side of his hangar slowly, not wanting to wake fillmore at this hour. coming to a halt in their backyard, sarge peers up at the clear night sky, taking in the thousands of visible constellations that dance above the mountain range in the distance. 

he takes his time charting the sky, listing off constellations as he spots them: “ursa motor, carion and his belt, carsseiopeia, clamp boötes….” and the tension and fear slowly evaporate from sarge’s joints. he’s so engulfed in this meditation that sarge doesn’t even register fillmore’s approach until the camper van is pulled up right beside him. 

startled, sarge jumps when the van’s tires tap his, but quickly relaxes once he sees who it is. calmed and a bit overtired, he can’t help but lean against fillmore’s stable frame, sighing at how warm the van always seems to run. 

“brought you some herbal oil,” fillmore calmly declares, unfazed by the jeep’s secretly cuddly nature. the pair have spent enough late nights in this exact spot for fillmore to know just how much sarge needs to be touched and held and loved, and the hippie has never been the type of car to deny him. “it’s got some extra ginger and carmomile, to help with the tension and exhaust issues,” he advertises, but sarge knew the blend was his favorite as soon as he smelled the tickly aroma.

sarge sips at the proffered cup slowly, trying to make the sweet liquid last as long as possible. despite his best efforts, however, the oil blend is gone too soon, and sarge finds himself craving more. before he can open his mouth to ask if fill’s got enough stock to spare another, a second can is nudged in front of him, complete with a twisty pink straw. sarge grumbles at the frilly object, but when he pulls back to glare at fillmore he finds that the van is struggling to hold in a laugh. a soft smile creeps onto sarge’s face and the hippie beams back at him. 

contentedly slurping down the second pail, the jeep nestles back against fillmore’s floral siding until there’s not even enough room for a wagon beetle to sneak between their bodies. the pair relax against one another, settling down onto their axles as they admire the twinkling lights above them.

the oil disappears quickly, but sarge isn’t bothered; he knows the van next to him will stick by his side through this life and into the next. they stay snuggled together until the first glimpses of sunlight peek over the mountaintops, and when fillmore suggests he abandon his stringent daily routine for a day and spend the morning sleeping in the van’s tents, sarge sighs in agreement. 

“why shouldn’t i?” he thinks, drifting behind the hippie. “the war is long over, it’s time to heal these old wounds.”


	3. low and slow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt — dance scene!

“low and slow?” ramone inquires, fresh paint job shimmering in the neon lights, and flo feels as young as she did the first time the pair went cruising. 

……………………….

the hot july sun has just dipped below the horizon, and the sky previously bathed in shades of pinks, oranges, and reds is now swathed in a cool purple. all around her, the stores’ neons begin to flicker on, painting the streets that she coasts along in a vivid array of rainbow light. the air around her has begun to cool down with the absence of the sun’s heat, but the night is still blanketed in a balmy warmth, moisture collecting in the divots behind her front tires. 

flo turns a corner and is met with the pale blue lights of her new cafe; in her eyes it outshines even the brightest stores across the road. the drive-in is filled with cars fresh off the highway, all bloodshot eyes and weary smiles. her single waitress, a sweet yellow chevy del ray named candy, zips between the customers, offering fresh pints of oil with a saccharine grin and effortless grace. flo exhales, settling down onto her tires as she admires the picturesque scene. 

she only gets a few private moments of pride for her shop, however, because candy spies her lurking in the side alley and offers her a toothy grin. letting out an exaggerated sigh, flo wheels into the cafe’s lot and begins to fill canary’s short stack of orders before they can pile up. 

“you gonna make me work the rush, girl?” flo shouts over the din as candy drives up to the counter and grabs the next order. candy’s eyes twinkle in amusement; after six months of working under flo, the del ray is used to her boss’s gentle teasing.

“i dunno boss, are ya gonna make me close tonight?” candy ribs back, causing flo to let out a loud laugh. she shoos the younger car away, chuckling under her breath. flo continues to fill each order and run the cash register, chatting pleasantly with each of her customers about their travels. she’s listening to a gaudy orange buick special attempt to regale her with a tiring story about getting stuck behind some tractors in kansas when he drives into her cafe.

he is the most dangerously hot low-rider she’s seen in a lifetime, and flo chats up hundreds of cars on the daily. he’s clad in a custom paint job: he’s clad in a slightly metallic elegant cyan base coat with some delicate linework details in seafoam. the design is completed by two cream racing stripes grace each side of him, the shade perfectly matching his white wall tires. flo can’t help but think that they almost look like they’re from a matching set, and she knows she’s already fallen for him. 

“—and so finally the last stupid tractor moves out th—” “—that’s great, hun, thanks so much for stoppin’ by!” flo interrupts the buick’s story, and hurriedly hands over the receipt before driving out to grab the low-rider’s order. she takes his friend’s orders first, trying to play off her sudden desertion of the back counter as a regular occurrence. the boys are easy to chat up, and flo’s not known as the biggest flirt west of the mississippi for nothing, but a small part of her feels guilty for teasing this gorgeous car’s friends when she feels like she’s already his. 

all too soon, flo find herself face-to-face with the man of her dreams, and manages to squeak out a stilted “well hi sugar, can i get you somethin’ to drink?” her normally low and sultry voice has taken on a strange pitch, and nearly cracks on “drink”. trying her hardest to tamp down the blush threatening to explode on her hood, flo doesn’t even notice that the low rider appears to be speechless at the site of her.

the awkward pair shake their hoods almost simultaneously, each of them knocking themselves out of their brief reveries, and shyly make eye contact. flo almost loses herself again in the impala’s eyes, a captivating, soulful blue. 

“my god, you’re a work of art,” ramone murmurs, and flo’s eyes widen. “what’d you say, honey?” she asks nervously, trying in vain to refrain from getting her hopes up. 

“oh, i’m so sorry miss, no disrespect at all!” he exclaims, shaking himself from the trance he’d fallen back into. a soft pink blush erupts just below his eyes, and he tries to find words to explain himself. 

“i don’t mean to comment on you like that, doll, i’m just a detailer. did all o’ my friends’ work myself,” he boasts, puffing up his axles at the statement. flo takes a quick look around at his friends, noticing a few details that appear on all of the cars. to the trained eye, it’s obvious that he and his buddies all received their paint jobs from the same artist, and boy was he an artist. 

when he notices her appreciative expression, ramone continues, “and, well, i’ve done a lotta work on a lotta cars, but even my best can’t compete with you.” here he pauses, as if taking in the sight of her was as necessary as breathing. it’s only a moment but it could’ve been years for all flo’s concerned: this low-rider has shocked her speechless. “really, showgirl, i mean it. hood to trunk, roof to road, you are the most gorgeous car i’ve ever seen and will ever see in my whole life. even i’m not worthy of painting on your canvas. i’m sorry, i know this sounds all kinds of weird to be hearin’ from the fella you’re just tryin’ to wait on, can i make it up to ya somehow? name’s ramone, bye the way,” he finishes, looking more bashful than anything.

flo isn’t sure where the sudden wind of confidence comes from, but she latches onto it like it’s a life raft and follows it into the abyss. “how ‘bout this, honey. i close up shop around eleven and i’m always itchin’ for a cruise after work. you can make it up to me by comin’ with me.” she’s not sure where the words came from, but as soon as they’re out in the open she knows there’s nothing she’d like more. 

“yeah, baby, i’d like that. i’ll be waiting.” he replies, after spending a couple moments trying to get over his shock. the blushing waitress offers him a sultry grin in response and returns to the counter to get the order ready. she is on the clock, after all.

when she delivers the boy’s fuel and oil orders, she offers ramone a teasing wink and says, giddily “name’s flo, by the way,” driving back up to the safety of her counter before the impala can respond.

time flies, and it feels like only a few short minutes later the town’s clock is chiming eleven and flo is turning off the neons for everything except the self-serve gas pumps. she’s so distracted by closing that she doesn’t hear the low purr of ramone’s engine as he approaches. 

“i heard there’s a sweet showgirl that works here and was looking for a cruise with a bum detailer,” he teases, causing flo to jump in surprise before turning around, ready to rib back. “oh yeah, sorry honey, she went home early tonight. something about meetin’ up with a sexier impala at the old wheel motel.”

ramone laughs and it’s a calming low sound that settles all the butterflies dancing around flo’s motor. “that’s a damn shame, she really was some girl.” he replies, fake pouting for a moment before the pair laugh together. 

“alright, you, just let me lock up and i’ll be ready,” she retorts, a tinkling laugh echoing around her words as she fiddles with the keys. not a minute later, the pair are getting ready to turn onto the empty road, attached at the hip and making googly eyes at one another the whole way. it’s there that ramone asks her the question that she’ll hear for decades after, the words still young on his tongue and new to flo’s ears. 

“low and slow, baby?” he asks, a look of gentle sincerity gracing his features. “low and slow, yes sir,” she answers, her smirk morphing into a soft smile. 

the pair cruise for hours, bumping and dancing to a rhythm only they can hear, until the sun peeks back over the horizon once more. even after having spent the whole night with this man, flo doesn’t want to stop. she’d chase him into the sunset forever if she could, and something tells her he’d do the same in return.

……………………….

“wouldn’t have it any other way, sweet stuff,” she cajoles, bumping his trunk with hers as they drive along the freshly paved road side-by-side. they’ve spent thousands of nights like this, and no matter how many cars share the road with them, it always feels like it’s just the two of them and the open road, entangled in an infinite waltz. tonight is no exception, and flo lets ramone dance her one night closer to forever.


End file.
